The Struggle Against Reality
by GeorgeAndrews
Summary: Life goes on. It always has done. It always will do. But how does life go on, for those stuck in a moment? My response to Kates89 Season's Challenge. Will be 7 chapters. I will say what options I received at the end of the last chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - Swearwords used, including F-word.**

* * *

**Chapter One**

The drive had been long and arduous for Flack. He didn't mind the long waits in traffic, the numbing mindlessness of endless straight roads with never an end in sight; he could even withstand the repetitive tunes whirling round on the play cycle of the radio station. However what he really couldn't abide was the small, narrower roads once one had left the city; the claustrophobic space of tarmac only as wide as his car was suffocating. He'd thought they were the stuff of legend, the stuff of tales from foreign countries, oh how he'd had no idea that they now existed almost on his own doorstep.

_This place wasn't in his jurisdiction anyway..._

He twisted the steering wheel sharply as a small animal suddenly darted from a hedgerow and disappeared into the opposing greenery.

_Shit!_

He swore in his head as he slammed down the brake pedal and the car screeched to a halt in the middle of the track. The engine cut out immediately. Flack stared at his sweaty hands, shaking against the wheel they were gripped around.

_What's wrong with you? Get a grip._

He ordered himself in his head. A grip... that was funny. His hands couldn't have been gripping the wheel any tighter if he had tried. His eyes darted up to the mirror. His face was pale, beads of sweat ran down his forehead and yet he felt cold... he felt sick. He didn't want to do this, he couldn't be here... it was too much, all too much.

_This place wasn't in his jurisdiction anyway..._

"Shut up," he said aloud and then jumped, the sound of his own voice shocking him.

Suddenly he ripped his hands from the wheel and ran them through his damp hair, it stood on end as he brought them down and willed them to stop in their trembling. He closed his eyes and gulped in a few breaths. He was going to be late now; they'd all be waiting for him. A flash of something disturbed his vision and his eyes shot open. There was nothing there. Nothing except him, his car and the narrow road. Carefully he turned on the ignition, cursing himself for his stupidity as he did so, and started off down the road again.

_This land was all hers..._

He'd guessed as much a while back when he'd driven past two stone pillars set high on either side of the road, now covered in gorse and bracken. It had only been from that point onward that the roads had turned into a maze-like warren of single lane tracks. They had been created this way on purpose. Created to change the entire landscape into something it was not. Into a home.

Flack felt worse as he drove on. The very thought of this case making his skin ache, his lip sweaty, his vision bleary.

_It's too soon for this...you should go home._

Flack wondered if his companion might have a point. Was it too soon? And yet it was all in his own head. The countless times in recent memory he had argued with the tiny voice in his mind before swiftly ignoring it for the worse were too many. And once again he chose to ignore it as he drove on between two more high, stone pillars. All at once the hedgerow started to subside and after driving through huge, wrought iron, black gates he caught his first glimpse of the place he had come to visit.

_This was hers..._

Flack gazed out of the windscreen at the neatly kept lawn as he drove past it towards the edifice before him. The large, grey-stone manor was set back from the lawn, the gravel driveway leading right up to its front door. A few squadcars were parked out the front and a black Avalanche joined them, meaning the CSIs had beaten him there. He'd be in for some trouble now.

_Please be Stella..._

He couldn't bear to have Mac's piercing eyes bearing into him, judgement strewn across them when it was none of his damn business.

Flack reached the house and pulled his car to a rough halt. This place was big, much bigger than it had seemed during the time it had taken for him to drive from the gates to the front door. It's long, darkened windows bore down upon him like big, black eyes; hollow and empty as if they'd swallow him up. As he exited his car he noticed the sky was bright and yet there was no colour to it. It wasn't blue, neither grey and yet his eyes watered with the brightness of the day. He blinked and then turned his attention to the front door. A figure in a dark suit was coming down the steps towards him.

"Stella," Flack managed in greeting, adding a slight nod.

"You're late," she snapped.

"Traffic," Flack snorted, adding a pitiful sorry almost under his breath.

"Never mind," Stella replied curtly. "She's up here. I take it you've been informed."

"Fully briefed back at the station," he replied.

"Did you talk to the suspect?" she asked, cutting him a sidewards glance.

"They packed me off up here before I had the chance," Flack grunted.

"I see," she nodded.

She turned and walked back the way she'd come. Flack followed a few steps behind, the gravel crunching under his shoes. In the distance he heard an uproar of squawking and then a flock of birds took flight out of the trees near the lawn edge. It looked very much like they were attacking each other but he couldn't be sure. Normal birds didn't behave that way anyway. Flack shook his head and climbed the few steps towards the entrance.

The two detectives entered into the gloom and Flack found he couldn't help the audible gasp he let out as his eyes adjusted to the light of the hall. It was magnificent. The size alone was enough to make anyone turn green and Flack knew immediately that his own apartment would have fit inside four times over, if not more. A curved staircase led up from the middle of the room and large double doors were set into the walls on the right and left sides. A circular table with a vase of flowers was set in the centre of the room before the stairs, surviving despite the gloominess of this grand room. Ornate panelling covered the walls and a sparkling chandelier hung down from somewhere far above Flack's head.

"Different, isn't it?" Stella smirked at him.

Flack nodded, mouth still slightly agape. He had never seen a room like this in his entire life.

Suddenly a noise off to the left diverted his attention and he turned to see a rather tall man striding efficiently towards them.

"Detective, I did request for your officers to be tidy and respectful as they complete their investigation, but really, I simply cannot allow them to go through the Mistress' private desk," he ordered.

"I'm afraid that's exactly what they're going to search through," Stella snapped back irritably.

Flack eyed the man up and down as she continued to argue back with the stranger. He was slightly taller than Flack was himself and his black, shiny hair was neatly parted at the side. He seemed to be somewhere in his late forties with a large nose, bright white teeth and small eyes. When he paused in conversation his lips were a thin line and fell into almost a mean look on his face. He was smartly dressed, and although Flack had only seen them in the movies, he guessed this man was the butler. If anything his English accent gave him away.

"I am in charge of this house here whilst the Master and Mistress are away...are...I mean..."

The man stumbled over his words, coughed and then looked slightly awkward.

"Your name?" Flack said gruffly, taking advantage of the pause.

"Pardon me?" the man turned to look at Flack, taking him in with a long stare.

"I said, you name?" Flack repeated as he took out his notebook and pen.

"Edward. Edward Plenty. I am Butler here and incharge of the..."

"Yeah, I heard," Flack interrupted bluntly.

Plenty sneered at him with distaste.

"I'll be needing to talk to you after I've seen the crimescene, Mr Plenty. Don't go anywhere," Flack ordered as he turned back to Stella for her to show him the way.

"As if I would leave my post during such a time," came the cold reply and then Plenty turned and strode away in the direction he had appeared from.

"Touchy," snarked Flack after him.

"It's upstairs," Stella remarked, turning the subject back to business as she started up the stairs.

Flack nodded to himself and then followed on behind her. He guessed she was still pissed at him for being late. He couldn't blame her, it was bad practice for him to turn up after the CSI's had started processing. But it was true, the traffic out of the city had been bad, and the journey a last minute order from upstairs. Flack found himself lost in thought as they journeyed up to the first floor. Something about this case didn't sit right with him.

It had all started when a call had come in from a jogger going for an early morning run in his local park. A man had been found sitting quietly by the lakeside, the morning sun glowing on his face. He was calm, almost sedate in expression, numbed by whatever horror had occurred in the hours leading up to that time. His thin cotton shirt blew gently in the breeze, as did his golden blond hair and he appeared to be barefoot, dew sodden grass clinging to his soles. In his left hand he held a revolver, a very old fashioned kind, but it hadn't been that which had drawn the attention of the jogger. The man's hands and shirt had been covered in sticky, red blood.

He'd been brought to Flack's precinct for questioning and that was when his Captain had told him. The man was Antony Strange, the multi millionaire and all American charmer. Flack recalled staring at him through the interrogation room window. He was young, and incredibly handsome with his boyish good looks and floppy hair. His reputation preceded him though and Flack knew from the papers that Antony Strange was more famed for his Lothario-like antics than anything else he'd ever achieved in his life. The curious thing was that he'd married only a few years back. The young and beautiful English heiress and aristocrat, Margaret Rosterick had become the envy of every girl in the world when she'd married Antony Strange.

'The woman who would tame the wild beast' they'd called her in the magazines, even though she'd only been nineteen at the time. Flack grimaced at that fact. Pushed into it by the parents, he'd thought. After the wedding they'd travelled the world together, snapshots of them appearing on every news site in the world. Margo had become a fashion icon, women flocking in their millions to buy or recreate her image, the press obsessed with her beauty. For she really was beautiful, a slight creature with an ethereal like quality to her aura. She gave the impression of being fragile and yet whether she was, the world did not know. She was a great lover of nature and of animals, another quality that made the world fall in love Margo Rosterick.

The couple had eventually settled in England, somewhere near the south coast, and for a while it seemed things had worked out. However, everything changed when, within a few months, Strange had dragged his young wife across the sea to America, a place she'd immediately felt homesick in. So Strange had devised a plan, had created this quintessential English Manor for her to live in, added the winding country roads and butler, everything to try and make her happy. But it wasn't enough. She eventually became a recluse, hiding from the limelight and never being seen in public. Strange was another matter though, he continued on with his pre-marital lifestyle of lavish parties and dinners without his wife. In the end Margo was forgotten and quickly replaced with a new icon for the women to fawn over, and no-one ever asked, 'Whatever happened to Margo Rosterick?'

"Flack, you with me?"

Flack jumped as Stella's sharp voice cut into his thoughts.

"Yeh," he replied gruffly.

He noted his hands had started to shake again.

"It's just down here," Stella directed as she turned left down the landing.

Flack clenched his fists tightly and trailed along behind her. Passing a mirror he noticed his hair was still on end and quickly released his hands to pat it down. He looked considerably worse than when he'd left the precinct a few hours ago, but then again, he'd had that long drive to mull over the details of the case. Officers had driven to the home of Antony Strange as soon as he'd been taken into custody and it was they who had found the gruesome discovery that had led to Flack being ordered out to the house. And the more Flack had thought about it on the drive, the worse he'd felt.

"How bad is it?" Flack suddenly asked as he followed Stella along a wide landing.

_Wider than the bloody roads._

"They're all bad," Stella replied over her shoulder.

Flack shivered and grimaced. Somewhere deep inside him he understood why this case was affecting him so badly, even if he didn't want to admit it. He paused briefly, taking a deep breath and then willed his hands to stop moving. It seemed that his brain wasn't connecting to his extremities that day. He looked up to see Stella pausing outside a room. This was it. In a moment he was expected to go through the door and see... and see God knows what. He swallowed, his throat was dry and it was a painful action. He couldn't do this. It was too much. That poor girl. He'd remembered Sam showing him pictures of the wedding, it had been all anyone – the magazines – all they'd talked about for weeks. That had been three years ago... Margo Rosterick was now only twenty-two...barely an adult... Flack swallowed again and cursed himself for doing so. The girl was still a child really. Snatched from her family and brought to a place she never wanted to live with an absent husband who favoured drinking and drugs over marital duty.

"Flack, are you coming?" Stella asked impatiently.

_Fuck._

Flack knew he was shaking as he approached the door, knew Stella was watching him, noticing his trembling. Was she aware it was fear? He didn't know. Carefully, and breathing loudly, he stepped over the threshold into the room before him. Into the room where the body of Margo Rosterick lay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Sunlight beamed into Flack's face as he stepped into the bedroom and for a moment all he could see was white. His body temperature briefly soared as the rays bathed him in their warmth and glow. Then it was all over, as quickly as it had come when he stepped further into the private bedroom of Margo Rosterick. All at once the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. There was a stillness about this room. Nothing moved; it was as though this room had been frozen in time, kept unchanged for years and years. He half expected a thick layer of dust to be covering the furniture but there wasn't. In fact everything was brilliantly clean, dazzlingly so in the bright sunlight that filled the room. An overpowering scented, perfumed smell filled his nostrils as he gulped in the static air that existed in the stillness. Small specks of dust, though Flack was now almost surprised to see any at all, danced in the rays as they shone down through the great glass windows that led out onto a balcony. Flack could see a small table and chair out there and an abundance of colourful flowers in various decorative stone planters.

He turned his attention back to the inside of the room. Thick velvet curtains hung down in their masses either side of the windows from high above his head. An elegant dressing table stood off to one side with an ornate gold-framed mirror resting over it. Each item on top of the glass surface was neatly placed and parallel to one another; brush, comb, powder, various other crèmes and lotions that Flack failed to recognise. He wondered if Margo Rosterick had ever even used these things, they looked so very untouched. A settee and two matching armchairs sat in front of a small fireplace, their material matching the thick curtains, and a lurid floral rug lay on the floor between them. Small floral cushions of the same pattern were placed carefully on the settee and for a while Flack simply gazed at his surroundings. Pink. Everything was so brilliantly, powder-puff pale pink. The curtains, chairs, floral rug... even the flowers on the balcony were various shades of pink. It was the most traditional of ladies bedrooms that Flack had ever seen, as if he had stepped back a century on passing through the doorway to this room. Or was it that Margo Rosterick had simply never grown up? Flack wasn't sure, but the colour together with that thought encouraged a sick feeling to start growing in his belly.

Finally he fixed his gaze on what he had come there to see. A grand four poster bed dominated the space of the large room. Reams of chiffon-like material fell down from the top of it and wafted gently back and forth despite the lack of any kind of breeze in the room. A golden bedspread covered the bed over crisp, clean pink sheets and it was there Flack got his first glimpse of her. His breath caught in his throat and he froze in his step. She was beautiful. He blinked. He knew in his heart he had never seen such a stunning woman, and what was more, she was peaceful. She lay perfectly set in the bed, her long golden hair running symmetrically down either side of her head to cover the sheets. He could just see the silk of a pink negligee that she must be wearing under the covers. Her eyes were closed and a faint smile tinged her lips. Her skin was pale, smooth but almost waxy, as if she were really a mannequin rather than a corpse. In fact, she didn't look like a corpse at all, she looked like a strange and heavenly creature that was simply sleeping in her bed and at any moment would wake and cry out for Flack's presence in her room.

_That won't happen. She's dead._

Flack was brought back to reality by that mean and tiny voice inside his head. He coughed, suddenly remembering he hadn't taken a breath in a while and all at once his lungs were filled with the overpowering perfumed scent again and he choked. He clasped a hand to his mouth, afraid the sick feeling in his belly was more than a feeling, but it wasn't. He fixed his eyes on the ethereal young woman before him again.

_Still dead._

Her arms rested just atop of the covers and he could see there was no ring worn on her wedding finger. He frowned. Why wouldn't she be wearing her wedding ring? Had her marriage really broken down that badly, or was that just rumours spread by the magazines to sell numbers? His detective's eyes quickly scanned over her nightstand but no ring was to be found there. He was just about to step forward to pull open the draws when a noise from behind stopped him and he jumped.

"Ah there you are I... Oh sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Flack turned to look into the concerned face of Sid.

"Sid," he nodded, trying to hide the fact his heart was still jumping wildly inside his chest.

"Flack," Sid returned. "Stella told me to let you know she went to call Mac. She'll join us in a minute."

"Right," Flack nodded, composing himself and bringing out his notepad and pen once more.

"You alright?" Sid frowned, still stopped halfway between the doorway and where Flack stood at the end of the bed.

"Fine," Flack sighed somewhat irritably.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Sid said, half grinning at the thought. He didn't wait for Flack's reply but bustled past him over to the side of the bed.

"Or maybe just a dead body," he chuckled as he looked down at the figure lying on the bed.

Flack didn't reply but pursed his lips. When would they all realise he was fine and stop bothering him with their suffocating looks of pity and boring repetitive questions.

_But you're not._

"I once saw a ghost, you know?" Sid was saying as Flack ignored his own thoughts in favour of Sid's definitely more interesting ones.

"Huh?"

"Yes, it was back in ninety-three I think... no, no it must have been ninety-two," Sid nodded.

"Where were you?" Flack asked.

"I was staying with family out in the country. We'd hired a cabin and gone up for the week. It was a rather wild and isolated place," Sid replied, his eyes starting to glaze over.

"Ugh," Flack grunted in response, finding the whole idea of cabins in the country unappealing.

"Yes, I woke up one night and decided to go for a stroll down to the nearby lake. I remember coming out of the trees to see a figure standing by the lake. The moon was very bright that night and I could see her quite clearly," Sid nodded.

"Who was she?" Flack asked in interest.

"Well that is just the question. I thought it was my dear old mother, standing there in her night gown. She looked the spitting image," Sid sighed fondly.

"What did you do?"

"I froze," Sid said rather dramatically. "My mother had passed away a good ten years before that so it was impossible for it to be her."

"Unless it was her ghost," Flack nodded as he logically reasoned along with Sid.

"Exactly. Trouble was I didn't really get along with my old mother so I ran back to the cabin and went straight back to bed after a good few glasses of the strong stuff," Sid grinned.

"But you did see the ghost of your mother?" Flack encouraged.

"Well," Sid smiled as his eyes refocused on Flack. "Not really. I mean, I thought I had but the next day when I mentioned it to the rest of the family, it turned out my sister had taken a midnight stroll down to the lake as well that night."

Flack felt his heart sink at Sid's words.

"So it was your sister you saw?" he murmured.

"Yes. And believe you me when I say she wasn't happy to be confused with our mother. Did I get it in the neck for that one," Sid chuckled.

"I bet," Flack half-heartedly responded.

Sid scratched at his head and then turned to don a pair of white gloves.

Flack paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, and then said, "So you don't believe in ghosts then?"

Sid looked up, a small frown on his face, clearly mulling over the question.

"That, I'm afraid," he replied, "Is the unanswerable question. What happens to us when we die?"

"What do you think?"Flack asked.

"There are too many possibilities," Sid mused. "But having spent the majority of my life around death and the dead, I can say one thing for sure; no life ever remains with the body."

"So you don't believe then," Flack answered.

"I didn't say that," Sid answered back. "The human spirit gets far too attached to this beautiful planet that we inhabit. Mankind has created every luxury that we could possibly think of. Therefore what would posses anyone to leave?"

"So you do?" Flack frowned, puzzled by his colleague's cryptic answer.

"I didn't say that either," Sid replied. "My answer is I don't know."

"Oh," Flack said, somewhat disappointed.

There was a pause in the room and a silence disturbed only by the sound of Sid snapping on his gloves.

"However I hope," the doctor suddenly said, and glanced meaningfully at Flack as he spoke.

Flack stared back at him, feeling that he should know what Sid was trying to say, knowing that in his heart he did understand his colleague's words, accepting in his head that the M.E was wrong, that he couldn't possibly know a thing about how Flack was feeling.

"Anyway, back to the business at hand," Sid said, nodding to the body before him.

"Yes," Flack coughed, looking back again at Margo Rosterick.

He once again found his breath catching in his throat as he stared at her. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something about her. It was as if she hadn't ever really belonged to this world, such a beautiful and different creature she was. That she had now returned to some other place from whence she came, hence the small smile on her lips.

"Cause of death?" Flack muttered, his professionalism overriding any other feeling that might have been flowing through his body.

"Ah," Sid replied as he gently touched his fingers to her head and tilted it to one side, brushing her hair out of the way as he did so.

Flack stared in horror as the fatal wound was finally revealed to him. The side of her head was stained with a trickle of blood emanating from a small hole in her temple.

"Gunshot," Flack choked softly as he scribbled it down. The nauseous feeling inside him was growing. How could anyone have shot such an innocent young woman? Especially when she lay unaware and sleeping in her bed.

"Indeed. At least it was quick, she probably never felt a thing," Sid replied as he examined the wound.

"Her husband Antony Strange was found with a revolver this morning," Flack worked out, anger briefly flickering through him.

"A revolver didn't do this," Sid said, subconsciously shaking his head. "No, a revolver would have caused much more damage. It was a very small gun that caused this wound."

"I'll inform the boys to search the house for a weapon of that sort," Flack nodded. "And I'll check with first on scene."

"I've not seen a gun in this room," Sid replied helpfully. "At least, not on view anyway."

"Either way it's been removed by somebody after the event," Flack growled.

"Stella mentioned that it was actually the butler who discovered the body, before the police officers arrived up here," Sid informed him.

Flack made a mental note to ask Plenty if he'd removed anything from the room at all, and also to question him closely about his whereabouts and actions leading up to and after his discovery of the body.

"It seems so sad, a pretty young thing like this," Sid sighed, pulling the sheets back so he could examine the rest of the body.

"Hmm," Flack agreed as he watched Sid at work. It seemed almost sacrilege to even touch the body, let alone move her.

"She was the world's sweetheart," Sid continued sadly.

Flack silently agreed wondering how it had all ended up like this for the poor girl. He hadn't spoken to Antony Strange himself and yet he found himself already hating the man. He had caused her life to be full of misery, for her to be separated from the rest of the world and left in the huge mansion, away from family and friends to live alone. What man could ever do that to the woman he loved? Flack clenched his notepad hard in his hand. How he hated Antony Strange.

_But you're just like him, aren't you?_

Flack froze, a shiver running down his spine as his tiny voiced companion started up in his head again.

_You didn't look after the woman you loved either._

A tear suddenly burnt in the corner of his eye as he was sucked into his own little world of thoughts and emotions.

_Now they're both dead._

Flack's breathing got audibly louder and he suddenly noticed that Sid was no longer looking at the body but was staring at him.

"Time of death?" Flack stammered, hands shaking once more.

"Sometime last night. Approximately between midnight and two am," Sid replied, never blinking once as he stared at Flack.

"Good," Flack nodded, ignoring the fiery racing of emotions through his body. It burnt him and he felt slightly faint. It was getting hot in the room and he needed to get out.

"Are you alright, Flack?" Sid asked, now looking rather more alarmed than concerned.

"Fine. I just need some air. It's so hot in here, isn't it? I just..." Flack stammered, pushing his notepad and pen roughly into his pocket.

He coughed and pulled at his shirt collar which was loose anyway. He stared at the corpse in the bed, the sleeping angel that didn't belong there. He gulped in the sickly-sweet perfumed air that made him nauseous. He stomach turned and once again Flack clasped a hand over his mouth, afraid he might vomit.

"I just... I need to get out of here," he choked from behind his hand.

And so it was that for the first time in his life, Detective Flack ran from a crimescene.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Flack fled the ever suffocating space of the bedroom and stumbled along the corridor to the stairs. He tripped down them, a hand grabbing hold of the banister for support, and scuttled out of the front door, praying that Stella wasn't still lurking about. She wasn't, no one was, and with that Flack's knees gave way and hit the gravel hard as he gulped in the fresh air, cloudy brown mist in his vision. His hands clenched in the dirt beneath him, the tiny stones forcibly digging into his skin caused by his own strength.

_Why did she have to die? Why now? _

Flack felt as though his face was on fire and he squeezed his eyes shut to avoid the burning liquid threatening to escape them.

_But who do you mean?_

It was that mean and tiny voice again, that all knowing voice that teased and scorned him. Suddenly and without quite knowing what had hit him, his stomach muscles contracted and too late he shoved a hand over his mouth. The vomit hit the gravel beneath him and slowly made its way in and out of the tiny stones. Flack watched it for a moment, mesmerised by the pattern it formed, still from the shock of vomiting at a crimescene. This had never happened before.

_But you've never been this pathetic before..._

A hand on his shoulder made Flack break out of his stupor and jump violently. Before he could turn a voice he recognised, a kindly voice, consoled him.

"It's alright, Flack. Better out than in."

Flack tried to speak, found his throat catch, coughed and then tried again.

"Thanks."

He swallowed deeply; his throat was burning painfully with the acidic taste of vomit. His whole body now ached and felt sweaty. He shivered despite no breeze being present at that moment.

"Here let me help you up."

A muscular arm latched onto him as Flack struggled desperately to his feet.

"I'm fine," Flack stated stolidly, wiping a hand across his brow. He could feel the back of his shirt clinging to his body.

"I know you are," Hawkes replied. "That's what you keep telling us all."

Flack stared into the deep brown eyes that confronted him and was about to make a bitter retort when his stomach muscles contracted again and he retched hard.

"Don't you have somewhere to process?" growled Flack as he straightened up, fully aware that the other man was still staring at him.

"Need I answer that?" Hawkes sighed, picking up his camera that he had placed carefully on the ground when he'd gone to help Flack up. "Though I'm not sure what I'll find here. This house is the epitome of perfect."

Flack followed the CSI's line of sight back to the house at which he was staring. It seemed to grow before them and Flack didn't envy the other man's job of having to process the place. It would take days or even weeks and once the media found out about this case there would be added pressure to catch the culprit. Everyone would want the case solved quickly and quietly and tied up in a nice little package, complete with bow. No, Flack certainly didn't envy the CSIs.

"Have you found any signs of break in?" he asked, breaking the silence between them, whilst he wiped his mouth on a sleeve.

"Not yet," Sheldon sighed, turning back to watch the taller man. "They all think it was the husband though."

"Was it?" asked Flack.

"No evidence to support that theory yet," Sheldon stated logically.

"But none to counter it either," mused Flack. "His revolver didn't kill her," he added.

"No," Sheldon frowned, shaking his head. "But Mac just called, he's spoken to Strange. No alibi."

"Why doesn't that surprise me," sneered Flack. He knew the type, party boy who was probably off his face for most of the night. He probably didn't even remember where he'd been.

"He says he was out driving most of the night, trying to find the perfect spot," replied Hawkes.

"Perfect spot for what?" asked Flack, puzzled.

"To kill himself," Sheldon put simply. "That's why he had the revolver."

Flack paled and looked away from the other man.

_To kill himself._

If he was honest with himself Flack would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it. Oh, he'd never go through with it, it wasn't in his nature to commit suicide. He had people who were dependent on him; his sister, his grandmother, even his colleagues...

_What a joke! How can your colleagues depend on you in the state you're in now?_

Flack scowled. How he hated that voice inside his head. He wanted to flatten it; if it had been a man he would certainly by now have pummelled it into nothingness.

_So why can't you do that anyway?_

And there it was, the million dollar question. Why couldn't he flatten out that voice into nothingness? It was all in his own head after all. He was creating it so why couldn't he stop it? Flack suddenly became aware that he had been silent for too long and that Hawkes was staring at him again. He could see the concern etched all over his face.

"I'm fine!" ground out Flack, sick of people treating him like he was about to break.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Sheldon muttered dismissively. "Fine. And exactly what is that supposed to stand for, Flack?"

Flack stared at the other man, taken aback by the front on him.

"Does it mean in trouble? Drowning? Help? Save me?"

"Shut up!" spat Flack, spittle showering the gravel he was standing on. "Just what do you think gives you the right..."

He was interrupted by the loud blast of a horn and then crunching gravel as a car drove up the driveway. Flack turned from the CSI and stormed away a few paces, still seeing red. He'd never got on well with Sheldon, whatever it was, whatever they did together or investigated they always had opposing opinions on it. The other man was dull, too by the book, every single minute detail of his life planned out and perfect. Flack couldn't stand that, he was more carefree, happy-go-lucky.

_Happy? Lucky? Another joke! Oh please continue, you're on a roll now!_

Flack closed his eyes and pushed the voice out of his mind. He no longer felt the anger he had moments before. Hawkes probably just thought he shouldn't be working, that he was a liability. And if he was honest, Flack agreed.

"Hello, who are you two chaps then?"

Flack's eyes sprung open and he took in the man who had spoken, the man who now stood in front of him. He was tall, taller than Flack but well built and muscular and when he had spoken, it was in a British accent. He had jet black hair and brown eyes even though his skin was pale and he wore a cravat. Flack couldn't stop his lip from turning up on itself into a sneer.

"We're with the New York Police. I'm Sheldon Hawkes, with the Crime Lab and this is Detective Flack," Flack heard Sheldon saying from behind him.

The tall man eyed both of them up and down and then spoke in what Flack thought was a careful manner.

"Evelyn Chambers," he held out his hand and after a pause in which Flack made no move to take it, Hawkes shook it politely.

"And this is Harold Love," went on Chambers as the other man joined them from the car.

Harold Love was a much shorter man, extremely bronzed with a range of stubble growing over his chin. His dark-blond hair was long, down to his shoulders and his shirt was undone so far down it was offensive, or so Flack thought.

"Greetings," Love nodded, speaking with a New York accent. "To what do we owe the pleasure? Or what does Tony anyway?"

"We're here investigating a homicide, Mr Love," replied Flack bluntly, speaking before Hawkes could get a word in.

"Homicide?" Chambers gasped, looking shocked.

"Yes, I'm afraid to tell you that Margaret Strange was killed last night, here in her house," Hawkes replied softly, nodding his sorrow.

"Rosterick," Love interrupted.

"P..Pardon?" Hawkes frowned, swapping a look with Flack.

"Dear Margo never took Tony's name," Love explained.

"No, she was quite independent that way," smiled Evelyn.

Flack narrowed his eyes at the two men. "You don't seem very upset by this news," he probed suspiciously.

"Well," scoffed Evelyn, "we barely knew the girl. Met her at the wedding of course, a couple of other times as well..."

"But she never really came out with us," finished Harold.

"So you never came here, to the house?" asked Flack, taking out his notepad and pen and praying to God his hands wouldn't shake too much to write.

"Oh we entertained here on numerous occasions," nodded Evelyn, "but always in the games room."

"Or smoking room," added Harold. "Margo never joined us. She was always upstairs or in her sitting room. Or horse riding."

"Wonder who'll look after the horses now, old Tony doesn't have a clue," mused Evelyn.

"Say, where is Tony?" asked Harold suddenly, peering around Flack and up at the house. "We came by to see how he was."

"He's answering a few questions down at the station," Flack said coldly. "Maybe you could tell me where you both were, last night between midnight and 2am?"

"We were at a party," stated Harold shortly.

"Yes, old Teddy threw one of his house parties and we were there all evening," Evelyn agreed.

"Was Mr Strange with you at all last night?" asked Flack.

"At Teddy's? Yes he was there," nodded Evelyn.

"Not all night though," frowned Harold. "We took him home around midnight and then drove straight back to the party, you can ask anyone there what time we returned."

"Why did you take Mr Strange home?"

"Oh, well , Tony was sozzled wasn't he?" Evelyn smirked.

"God knows what he'd been taking but he was off his face," Harold snorted.

"You don't sound very happy about this?" Hawkes suggested.

"Look, don't get me wrong," Harold said. "We all love a party, no one more then me and Evelyn."

"And we all love a drink and to...err... well to enjoy ourselves and have a good time, shall we say," smiled Evelyn.

"But Tony took it to extremes more and more frequently. It was becoming embarrassing. We ended up almost being his bodyguards, protecting him from the press and unwanted attention," Harold growled.

"It's why we brought him home last night, he'd had too much. Way, way too much," nodded Evelyn.

"And you left straight away? Did you see him into the house?" asked Flack.

"No, we didn't want to wake anyone up," explained Evelyn. "We just dropped him off about here and then left."

"Nice of you," Flack said sarcastically.

"And how was his relationship with Ms Rosterick?" asked Hawkes.

"They didn't spend much time together," snorted Harold, starting to look bored by the questioning.

"He loved her," Evelyn said quietly.

Harold scoffed at him in disgust. "She used him! A real madam if ever there was!"

"What makes you say that?" Flack inquired.

"She got him to build her all this didn't she?" Harold said angrily. "Wasted all his money and still treated him like shit. It's social etiquette to show your face at parties, especially if you're the wife of Antony Strange, but did she? No, miss high and mighty couldn't come down off her thrown to do something for Tony. All she ever thought about was herself!"

"Now that's not fair," Evelyn interjected before either Flack or Hawkes could say anything. "Yes she didn't accompany Tony to many events but she just wasn't a social butterfly like him."

"And how do you think that made Tony look?" Harold asked the two detectives.

"So you didn't get on with the victim?" Flack asked, ignoring the question just put to him.

"No, not many of Tony's friends did," Harold agreed.

"And Mr Strange?" asked Flack.

"Like I said before, detective, Tony loved her. I'd swear on my life to that," Evelyn replied.

Flack nodded and scrawled some notes down, keeping his hands as steady as possible.

"Don't go far, we may need to talk with you again," he nodded and then stepped away from the group.

Flack released a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding in. His hands had been steady, he'd asked sensible questions, no one had suspected a thing. He was fine. He was.

"They'll be in the games room if we need them further," Hawkes stated coming over to join him.

Flack ignored the information, unforgiving of Hawkes' earlier questioning of him. He was just finishing off a note when something caught his eye, half buried in the gravel a few feet from him. Eyes narrowing he moved closer, popping his notepad back into his pocket.

"What is it?" Hawkes asked, still gaining no response from the detective. "Flack?"

Flack crouched and carefully moved some of the gravel with the end of his pen. Slowly a small pistol was uncovered in the dirt.

"Well," Hawkes whispered in a hushed tone. "Now of all the surprises. Don't move it, I'll take some shots."

"Course I won't bloody move it," growled Flack, stepping back so Sheldon could get some good pictures.

He watched as the CSI snapped away, working enthusiastically hard as usual, a new energy to his movement thanks to this most recent discovery.

"You think it was the weapon?" asked Flack.

"It looks that way," Hawkes replied as he continued to snap away. "Although I'd rather not make guesses until we've processed the evidence."

Flack rolled his eyes and huffed in annoyance.

_He's just doing his job, maybe you should do the same?_

Flack closed his eyes as the tiny voice came back to him. Was it never going to leave him alone? Solitude, that was all he wanted. Solitude from this voice, from his colleagues and from his friends.

_Just like her, why do you think she had this house built?_

Flack glanced up at the house and wondered at it. Just why had it been built? Why had Margo Rosterick spent all her time in solitude in this house, away from her husband, family and friends? Harold Love and Evelyn Chambers hadn't given a favourable impression of the young woman, and yet they insisted Antony Strange had loved her, despite their obviously separate lives. This puzzled Flack.

"Hey man, look, I'm sorry about what I said earlier..."

Flack blinked and looked back over at Sheldon. The man was wringing his hands, solemnity apparent in his eyes and he spoke in earnest.

"I didn't mean to get on your case, it's not my place. We just all want to help."

"I don't need your help," Flack snarled, sick of the pity. "I don't need anyone's help!"

He stormed off, away from the other man, heading for the side of the house.

"Yes you do!" he heard shouted at him from behind. "And Mac knows it!"

_And Mac knows it..._

The little voice laughed at him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Flack stomped round the side of the house, descended a couple of steps and walked out onto the lawn that stretched away down a slope towards a small lake. The grass was still damp from the dew of the morning and even as he looked, Flack could see wet shapes appearing on his shoes. Sheldon had no right, absolutely no right... no one did... and certainly not Mac. None of them could ever know the pain, would ever know it...

_But you're wrong._

Flack felt his gut clench with guilt as he remembered that Mac had lost his wife not so very long ago. Maybe he should talk to the older detective...

Flack shook his head and continued on his aimless amble down towards the lake. He paused as he reached a perfectly round shape in the lawn. It was concreted over and wide enough in diameter to fit fifteen men across. It sloped gradually downwards getting deeper with the gradient. Flack frowned and walked down the few steps on the shallow side that led into it.

"It's a swimming pool," a voice informed him from above.

"Damn weird pool if you ask me," Flack said gruffly as he looked up towards Lindsay.

"I admit it's an old fashioned one, and at a guess barely used, but still a pool nonetheless," she replied, smiling at the tall detective.

Flack gave in and half smiled back at her, sighing deeply as he did so.

"Hawkes and I found a pistol in the driveway," he informed her. "Looks promising."

"That's good news," Lindsay said nodding.

Flack yawned and then walked back out of the pool, coming to join Lindsay on the grass. They both looked out at the lake together in silence. The day was turning out to be a grey one but still relatively bright. The lake was calm and placid, no activity taking place on it, not even a bird. The entire place had a stillness to it that unsettled Flack. He half expected a great sea monster to come splashing out of the water at any moment like in the movies, but it didn't happen.

"Eerie, isn't it?" Lindsay murmured, her voice making Flack jump.

"I thought it was just me," he replied quietly.

Lindsay looked at him. Flack was still staring out at the lake.

"It's the perfect place," she reasoned, looking about her. "Such a wonderful house and gardens, exactly what a girl dreams of and yet..." she stopped, at a loss for the right words.

"Feels unhappy," Flack decided, finally turning to look at her. "It feels lonely."

"That's it," Lindsay agreed. "It's as if this whole place was built by bitterness rather than out of love."

"I dunno," Flack shrugged. "Just spoke to a couple of Strange's friends. They assured me he was totally besotted with our vic."

"That's interesting," Lindsay frowned.

"Even more interesting that they both hated her," Flack said gruffly.

Lindsay sighed sadly. "I guess we all thought she was lovely, I admit that even I envied her when I read about her in the tabloids."

"You?" Flack chuckled.

"Hey!" Lindsay exclaimed and gave him a friendly nudge.

They both laughed quietly for a moment and Flack enjoyed the feeling of relaxation that came over him. It was the first time in a long while he didn't feel uptight and exhausted.

"I just meant, you never really know who someone is," Lindsay stated. "Not just from what you read about them."

"Outward appearance can be very deceptive," Flack nodded.

_Yours isn't._

Flack grimaced. He was tired. So, so tired of everything. He knew he looked rough, acted strangely and that everyone was worried for him. And yet he didn't care. He simply couldn't bring himself to care about much these days.

"You doing alright?" Lindsay asked cautiously, eyeing the other man for a spark of anger at her question.

Flack glanced at her, he couldn't get annoyed at Lindsay. She wasn't like any of the others.

"Struggling," he replied, after a moment's silence. It wasn't the complete truth, but it wasn't a lie or the usual, "I'm fine."

"Oh Flack," Lindsay sighed gently touching his arm. "You know if there's anything Danny or I can do..."

"You've got enough on your plate Linds; small child, husband in a wheelchair, stressful job..."

_That you only make more stressful..._

"I always have time for friends," she smiled.

Flack sniffed, and absent mindedly scratched his nose.

"It never stops hurting," he finally said, closing his eyes for protection. Against what, he didn't know, but at that very moment he felt vulnerable. He was baring his soul for the very first time since it happened.

"I can't imagine..." Lindsay started, unsure of her words.

"I feel so alone..." Flack whispered.

_Just like Margo Rosterick. Just like Jess when she died. Just like you when you die._

Flack struggled for air, gulped and choked down any words he was going to say. He could feel the burning in his eyes of imminent tears. He couldn't cry in front of Lindsay. He couldn't do that to her when she had so many burdens of her own. He couldn't show just how much he was hurting.

"The vic live here alone?" he coughed, changing the subject swiftly as the emotion of the moment threatened to swallow him.

"There was the Butler, Edward Plenty," Lindsay replied hesitantly, eyeing the tall man carefully. Her hand was gently touching his arm again but he shrugged it off and moved away.

"Yeah, I met him," snorted Flack.

"A few others who worked in the house too, and a great aunt, Hester Maythorpe," Lindsay sighed.

"An aunt?" Flack said with interest. "Who's aunt?"

"Her's," Lindsay said knowingly. "And..."

"And..." Flack encouraged.

"And, I was just going to talk to her now," Lindsay replied, a sparkle in her eye.

"After you then," Flack nodded.

Lindsay led the way from where they stood back across the grounds. Flack growled in the back of his throat as he realised his feet were now wet, and cold. The dew had soaked through his feeble shoes and the effect was a rather irritating and unpleasant one. The two detectives approached a large glasshouse that was attached to the rear of the house, a curious noise of humming reaching their ears. They entered through a side door and almost at once were confronted with a mellay of strange and exotic plants. So close, as they were, it was hard to see a path through them. The heat of the tropical paradise closed in around them and once again Flack felt himself suffocating from the humidity.

"Here, this way," whispered Lindsay and disappeared into the foliage.

"God," Flack rolled his eyes and then went on after her.

It had become apparent, as soon as they'd entered, that the humming noise was actually a unique type of music, one that Flack had never heard and yet it was delicately beautiful. Between the heat of the room, the hypnotic music and the scent of the plants he began to feel drowsy. God he longed for his bed, to curl up with a bottle of whiskey and to have done with this case.

"Who's there?"

An elderly lady's voice rang out above the music, shrill to Flack's ears.

"I'm Detective Messer, and this is Detective Flack."

Flack emerged from the foliage to see an old lady seated in a wheelchair, a shawl round her shoulders and a tartan blanket thrown over her legs. He wondered how she could stand the layers in the stifling warmth of the glasshouse. To her left was a round, cloth covered table on which items were set out for tea and to her right was a record player, the source of the strange music.

"Oh, yes, I was told of your presence. I've been waiting for you," said the old lady, settling back in her chair.

She had a severe looking face, short grey hair and dark eyes. Flack thought she looked as though she had been mean in her youth.

"Well go on then, ask me what you have come to," she ordered in a harsh voice.

Flack and Lindsay exchanged looks.

"Where were you last night, between midnight and 2am Mrs Maythorpe," asked Lindsay in a kindly manner, not wanting to offend the elderly woman.

"Miss," snorted the old lady with derision. "I have never been married in this life and nor do I intend to be. I am perfectly happy just to be on my own."

Flack doubted that anyone would want to marry the old woman even if she had been of a differing opinion. He doubted that anyone would have ever wanted to marry her.

_Another sad and lonely person. Just like you._

"Sorry, Miss Maythorpe, can you tell me..." Lindsay was saying as Flack looked over at her.

"Yes, yes. I'm not deaf, child. I heard the times you were asking about," Hester interrupted in what she clearly thought was an appropriate manner to talk to those who were well below her age.

"So?" Flack pressed, bored at being spoken to like a child.

The old lady turned to stare at the tall detective and her eyes bore into him like she could see into his soul. Flack had the good grace to blush and avert his eyes.

"I was asleep of course, tucked up in bed. There's no-one who can confirm that I didn't sneak out in the night to commit a murder but there it is."

"And did you hear anything, Miss Maythorpe?" asked Lindsay.

"What did I just tell you, I was asleep. I heard nothing," Hester said sharply as she leant to her side and tried to pick up the teapot. It was obviously full and too heavy for the old lady, whose hands shook.

"Can I help you with that?" Lindsay asked politely, stepping forward to do it for her.

"No," stated Hester abruptly. "What do you think we pay Plenty for!"

She pressed a small button on her table and that sat back to wait. Flack's eyes followed a small wire running from it and noticed it led off towards the wall of the house.

"He'll come running any minute," Hester chuckled to herself. "That man is a buffoon. Wonderful butler of course, but a buffoon all the same."

She smiled at her own words and Flack felt a shiver run down his spine. It was a mean smile.

"I expect you want to ask me about Margaret?" Hester asked, her eyes narrowing as she watched for any reaction from the detectives.

"You were close?" asked Flack, staring down his nose at the seated lady. He wasn't going to let her feel she had the upper hand.

Hester didn't seem to notice. She leant forward and again that mean smile appeared on her lips.

"I'll tell you a little secret about Margaret if you want?"

She seemed excited about the news she was about to impart.

"Yes?" Flack said gruffly when it appeared she wasn't going to speak.

"That girl was a bitch!"

Flack was temporarily stunned and as he turned to Lindsay, lost for words, he saw she too looked completely shocked by the old woman. Hester Maythorpe sat back in her chair, grinning from ear to ear at the reaction she received.

"Nobody liked her," she went on. "Such a pretty little thing on the outside, but one of nature's ugly human beings on the inside."

"What makes you say that?" Flack asked, curiosity piquing at hm.

"She made everyone's lives a misery, always had done. Only her own way was ever acceptable to her, she would shout until she was blue in the mouth. Why do you think he built her this house?"

"Antony Strange?" asked Flack.

"Of course, Tony. Who else?" Hester replied in annoyance.

"To show great affection?" asked Lindsay.

"More like to keep her from the public eye so he could go out and enjoy himself," Flack muttered bitterly.

"No!" scorned Hester. "It was to protect everyone from her!"

"Protect?" frowned Lindsay.

"Yes protect. She was harmful. The devil. Everyone around her was cursed by her presence!" exclaimed the old lady.

Flack's mouth had dropped open. Nutty as fruitcake, he thought to himself.

"Why do you think your great niece was the devil?" he asked.

Hester turned to stare at the tall detective again and once more her eyes bore into him. "No one knew her true self, well... no one except those who were around her, who spent time with her. She was a selfish, vain and decadent child and it got worse as she reached adulthood."

"Then why did you come to live with her?" asked Flack, still disbelieving the crazy old lady.

"There was nowhere else for me to go," Hester replied bitterly. "I was a teacher... for a great many years. A private girls' boarding school. I gave my life to that place but once one gets old..."

She paused and cast her eyes downward. For the first time since meeting her Flack felt a pang of... of something, an emotion... pity perhaps. He wasn't sure.

"Cast aside and forgotten," Hester murmured.

Flack glanced at Lindsay who looked saddened at the old lady's words. He frowned. This woman had the perfect motive for the crime. It was clear she hated the victim and there was no alibi to speak of. He needed to use his head.

"So can you think of anyone who would want the victim dead?" he said gruffly, stunning Lindsay with his directness.

Hester looked up at him and her face was grim. "Everyone. Every single person who met her. She was a bitch I tell you. A bitch!"

She screamed the last word, her voice shrill and erratic over the music playing beside her. At that moment Edward Plenty, the butler, appeared beside her. He immediately poured a cup of tea for her and forced it into her hands.

"There, there, Miss Maythorpe. Have these two police officers been tiring you out?"

He spoke in a derogatory manner to the old lady, as if she were thick or a small child.

"I'm fine," she muttered but the cup rattled on the saucer she held.

"It's been quite an eventful morning, hasn't it? I shall take you up to your room for a little nap before luncheon is served," he said loudly to her.

Turning, he glared at the two detectives and then ushered them away from the old lady and out towards the garden.

"I'm afraid Miss Maythorpe is not quite the woman she once was," he said stiffly as they exited out onto the lawn.

"You can say that," muttered Flack.

Plenty gave him a look of disdain. "There is no need for that manner, Detective. Miss Maythorpe was once the headmistress of a renowned girls' school in England. It's never quite been at the peak it reached under her guidance since she retired."

"And just why did she retire?" asked Flack suspiciously.

"Old age," Plenty sneered back at hm.

"So nothing to do with eccentricities?" Flack asked.

"I take great offence at that, Detective. It is out of our control as to who might be unfortunate enough to lose a few marbles as one ages. Miss Maythorpe is sadly one of those unlucky few."

"It must have been difficult for Margo Rosterick to see her aunt age in this way," Lindsay said sympathetically.

"It was," Plenty replied. "The mistress adored her aunt. That is why she brought her over here to live with her. She wanted some companionship; after all, the Master was out of the house rather a lot."

"We know," Flack nodded.

"Well, it hurt her no end to hear what Miss Maythorpe would call her. Such ungodly names, and not words that should be spoken by a lady's tongue. But sadly, Miss Maythorpe doesn't always know what she is saying. I doubt she'll remember what she said to you either. She is prescribed all manner of tablets by her doctor to improve her condition."

"So she wouldn't be able to get up in the night, by herself?" asked Flack.

Plenty almost laughed. Almost. But caught himself in time. "My dear detective, she can't even walk. I take her from place to place in her chair. I get her up in the morning and put her to bed at night."

"Must be tough," Flack said lightly.

"The Mistress loved her, and therefore, so do I," Plenty said simply.

Flack and Lindsay nodded their thanks for Plenty's time and then turned away from him, traversing over the grass together.

"Oh, Detectives?"

They turned back to look at the butler.

"I do hope you won't take what Miss Maythorpe was saying seriously. The Mistress really was an angel. Everyone loved her, including her aunt during her saner moments. We all would have done anything for her," he said.

With that he bowed and turned back to the glasshouse, evidently going to take the old lady away for her nap. Flack turned to Lindsay to speak but at that moment his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

It was Mac.


End file.
